My Iron Lung
by relishthebreath
Summary: Set immediately after Chosen. Buffy finds it harder to deal with Spike's death than assumed. However, the connection between them still exists...but will it be there when Spike returns for real? An eventual reunion story that's not as easy as it seems.


**My Iron Lung**

**Disclaimer: **None of the characters mine. Clearly. Neither is the title, which is stolen from Radiohead.

**Summary: **Set after Chosen, spoilers for NFA. Spike's death hits Buffy harder than she thought it would. A reunion story that's not easy by any means.

**Rating: **PG-13/R to be safe.

**Author's Note: **Should warn people that I did not actually see the last season of AtS, but I gathered the gist of it from other fanfics/spoilers. So if you see inconsistencies, meh.

**Chapter One: **Normal

He grieved for her a hundred and forty-seven days.

She grieved for him longer than that, but not at first.

Not at all.

When she stood at the edge of the crater, a small smile crept across her bruised face though the stinging burn he'd left on her hand had barely started scabbing over. She smiled because it was the end. She wasn't the only One anymore. She was free. She was free to pursue the normal existence that had long been denied. She was free to let somebody else save the world for once.

As everyone clamored back onto the bus and chattered about the next steps, about consolidating the new slayers and reestablishing the Watchers' Council (this conversation was predictably spearheaded by the ever-serious Giles while the rest of the remaining Scoobies and newly-realized slayers collectively groaned), she stood by the crater still, blessing it, blessing him for giving her this liberty. Her eyes drifted closed and she thought of taking in the Mediterranean from the deck of a cruise liner. She thought of shopping in Paris and hiking in New Zealand.

She thought of things considerably less glamorous too. She thought of lazily doing crossword puzzles on balconies that overlooked still sunsets (and not the kind of sunsets that signified obligations, weapons and stakes and nightly patrols). She thought of picking up Dawn from school, of primetime TV and of Tuesdays that meant pizza and movie nights, not impending, apocalyptic doom.

And she was happy. The memory of those last words and that last touch between them fell into the back of her psyche, singed off her consciousness like the last bit of skin they shared. When she thought of him, she only felt pride. He had saved them all. He was her champion – wait, no. He was _a_ champion. She had no claim to him. Not anymore. She had never meant to in the first place.

And now, no one claimed her either. Not the Powers, not anyone. She relished this thought and turned it over like a bright pebble in her brain.

Now she had to figure out what she was going to do.

After much discussion, everyone worked out their plans. Giles would head to London to pick up the pieces of the destroyed council with Andrew in tow (Not Giles' choice, Andrew more or less forcibly invited himself with so much enthusiasm that even Giles didn't have the heart to tell him to bugger off). Kennedy and Willow's plans included getting to know each other better under easier circumstances (the whole world-ending thing was sexy, but not conducive to seeing if an actual relationship would work), so they decided on vacationing for a while in Rio De Janiero. Xander was pretty mysterious and tight-lipped about his plans. Maybe because he wasn't quite sure of them himself. Anya's death had left him empty, ambivalent and guarded. He didn't deliver any zippy commentary when people excitedly exchanged ideas and fantasties for the future. He only mumbled something about resuming that cross-country trip he began after high school and then said nothing else.

Faith and Wood were off to Cleveland. Her role in the last battle left Faith flushed, revived, redeemed. She firmly stood on the good side again and she wanted to stay there. The fact that she got kick ass for a living also helped. So she announced that she'd take her new white hat and some of the new slayers to the second (well, now first) most dangerous Hellmouth in the country. Wood didn't say much in way of concurrence; he just nodded stoically and took her hand.

Buffy watched them and it struck her as ironic. A long time ago, she was the Slayer poster-girl, the one who tirelessly adhered to her calling while Faith slipped further and further away from it and sneered at her lack of spontaneity. Now that everything was said and done, the roles were reversed. Buffy was the one that was walking away from all the responsibility just as Faith proudly claimed it again.

Buffy was very clear about taking a "hiatus of indeterminate length" from slaying. Giles tried to talk her out of it many times (punctuated by Andrew's constant chorus of "Listen to Giles! He's British and old and wise!"), insisting that she had the most experience and therefore her assistance was imperative with all that had to be done regarding the finding and training the new slayers across the world. Finally, after the tenth lecture, Buffy looked up and steadied a gaze at Giles. The weary pain in her eyes made the glasses fall from the bridge of his nose and suddenly, he understood.

"This is the only chance I've ever gotten to be normal, Giles," she said, sitting across from him in the shabby hotel room they shared the first couple of days, located on the outskirts of (what-used-to-be) Sunnydale. "Please don't take that away from me."

He wasn't there to stop Willow when she had stripped Buffy of peace that first time. His absence made him an inadvertent accomplice in denying her respite from the years of grim death and duty. The watcher in him succumbed to the father in him.

He flew to London immediately to check on the Council's assets. While the headquarters had been destroyed, a staggeringly large bank account in the Council's name remained untouched. He wired everyone enough money to achieve whatever dreams they had in the immediate future.

Out of everyone, he gave Buffy and Dawn the most.

They sat on the floor of their hotel room with a map spread between them while they ate Chinese takeout. It was like they were children again and the globe was their candy store.

"How about here?" Dawn waved a Moo-Shu covered chopstick around the eastern hemisphere.

Buffy's eyes slit as she looked down at the map. "Rand McNally. Isn't that where hamburgers eat people?"

"Australia, you fool. Koalas. Kangaroos. Shrimp on the Barbie."

"You're allergic to shrimp," Buffy pointed out.

Dawn frowned with her mouth full. "Forget Australia."

Just like that. Because it was that easy to make a choice now.

"How about . . ." Buffy scanned the map skeptically. "Europe?"

Dawn arched an eyebrow. "Care to be more specific, brain-trust?"

Buffy put her fingers to the map, trailing them through the expansive continent. She pretended her fingers were legs that imagined a journey for her. They started out in England, traveled through the United Kingdom, through France, Germany, and Switzerland towards the eastern side. Czechoslovakia. The tip of her finger hit Prague.

And suddenly, with a surge of electricity, she remembered.

* * *

_  
Prague_. He'd told her about it, not too long ago. He told her of the orgy of blood Drusilla reveled in at that convent school for girls. He told her about how prettily she arranged the bodies in their smocked white dresses so that they sat upright in their beds while she took some of their own blood and smeared it between their milky legs and skirts. He told her about the aftermath, about the mobs and the witches and the spell that left his Dru weak and dizzy and madder than ever before. He told her that Prague was the reason he came to Sunnydale in the first place.

He told her all this on the back porch one night, when all the other slayers-in-training and Scoobies had taken a break and headed downtown for some ice cream. His eyes were shining with dark tears and his hands were heavy as he tried to make gestures that appealed to certain descriptions. He stumbled through the hard parts and she wasn't quite sure why he was telling her all this, but she listened attentively, silently, supportively. She listened and she felt his guilt and remorse choking him like a steel vise. But she couldn't place it. Not exactly. Of course he was sorry for what he'd done, for what he'd watched Drusilla do and for enjoying it all. But there was something else. There was exhaustion in his voice when he paused and said, "And then we ended up in Sunnydale. And we all know what a bloody muckfuck that turned out to be."

It took her aback, because he sounded so regretful, so sad. Like after all the centuries of callous murder and torture, the one thing that knocked him down was getting here. Was meeting her. Was everything that came after that.

She frowned and he looked over just in time. He knew and touched her arm lightly before recoiling when she turned her face to his.

"Pet, don't think that," he said quietly. How did he know what she was thinking, she wondered? How did he always know? "I don't regret being here now. It's just the past I regret. All the . . . mistakes I made. With yo--" He stopped himself. "With everything."

"But you're different now," she murmured, letting her hand rest in the crook of his elbow. He stared at her dainty fingers that always looked too delicate to be weapons of death and smiled tightly.

"I guess I am. I don't rightly know. I hope so."

He was looking up at her now and the dark tears in his eyes had been replaced by a different type of shine.

"I don't regret meeting you, Slayer. I don't regret that. I don't regret helping you and I don't regret trying to be the type of ma --" He stopped himself again, winced as if in pain and shook his head. "I don't regret trying," he finally said.

Buffy stared at him, but he looked away and seemed completely engrossed by some shrubbery. She felt feverish and chilled at the same time, but mostly she wanted to touch him. Brush his cheek, wipe the tears away and ease his fears. But she had enough fears of her own. So she just sat with him in silence until they heard Xander and Andrew arguing over the merits of Battlestar Galatica while the slayerettes giggled dreamily from the front yard.

* * *

The whole conversation flashed in her mind like a lurid dream, instantaneous and sharp. It just as quickly subsided. Her mouth was open and when she regained awareness, Dawn had the chopsticks tucked between her teeth like a confused walrus.

"Buffy? Are you okay?"

"Huh? Oh." She shook her head and blinked twice. "I'm fine."

Not fine. For the first time in a week and a half, she was not fine. It was the first time she let herself really remember him, not his sacrifice, but just him.

She felt her chest constricting; she felt a tremor inside her quake. Murmuring that her nerves were shot and she was suffering from a headache, Buffy slipped to the bathroom and turned the jarring fluorescent light on. It crackled on slowly and washed over her in a sick yellow glow. She stared at herself in the mirror. Pale, bruised, skinnier than she expected, but alive.

Alive. And he wasn't.

She felt her legs give way and she collapsed onto the toilet. The initial joys of surviving had passed and now she was slapped in the face with the realization that he was gone. The undead was finally just . . .

Dead.

Her hands scrambled to turn the tub faucets on. She didn't want Dawn to hear her. As the water ran, she let her own tears run as well, although she didn't make a sound anyway. She just sat there and watched her grave reflection in the mirror as salty trails climbed down her cheeks and neck.

Where had this come from? She'd been fine. She had accepted his death bravely and hadn't spoken of it since the Hellmouth closed. No one had. Not because they thought it was negligible, but because they wanted the enigma that was Spike to rest in the remembrance of his final valiant act.

And then she finally recalled his reaction to when she uttered those three heavy little words.

"_No you don't . . . but thanks for saying it."_

She had been in awe of him in that moment that she didn't have time to mull over his response. All she felt was a wave of relief because now all their pain had been eradicated. His pain too.

But now she wondered what he'd meant. He was normally so perceptive. He often knew her better than herself. Was he right? Was that daring admission of love just pity on her part? Just gratitude? She had told Angel that Spike was in her heart, but he wasn't her boyfriend. That was true. She never imagined Spike as boyfriend material, probably even more so after he got the soul. He was a good many things, but boyfriend was not one of them. He was her friend, he was her ex-lover, he was her enemy, he was her partner, he was her undoing, he was her ally . . .

He was her strength.

He wasn't just a boyfriend. He could never be.

But then suddenly, he was a voice in her head.

"_Hey Slayer."_

She sat up with a start and looked around the bathroom.

"Spike?"

There was nothing around her, only the sound of rushing water and the tinny noise coming from the TV outside. She closed her eyes and tried to sense as she always could—it wasn't just him, it was the slayer tingle in general. But the air around her was cold and still.

"_That's right, pet_._" _His voice was so soothing, like worn-down leather and curling smoke.

She thought the tears had ceased a few minutes ago, but her eyes refilled immediately.

"Spike, where are you?"

"_Who's to tell, pet? The deitrus of the cosmos? In some sort of waiting room? All white it is, can't suss out whether it's the lobby for Heaven or Hell."_

"Are you real?" She almost choked on the influx of tears now.

She thought briefly of the time he sounded as choked up as she did now, asking her, imploring her, "Am I real to you? Am I flesh to you?"

But now his voice was even and unhurried. _"'Fraid not, pet. At least I don't think so. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as they say."_

"So how are you talking to me?"

"_I guess you conjured me up. I guess you sort of miss me."_

She could almost hear the smug smile in his voice and her lips involuntarily followed suit.

"I do miss you. I didn't think I would. Not like this."

"_That makes two of us, pet_."

And in her head, he sounded so sad. So defeated, but accepting. She covered her mouth again and stifled a sob.

"_Love, what are you doing in the bathroom?" _he gently prodded.

"Missing you! Apparently!" she thundered.

"_You can't hide in here all night, Buffy."_

"Hey! I thought you'd be glad that I missed you! That I finally broke down and acknowledged that you're gone and that means something me!"

"_I'm not glad about anything. I don't want you to grieve like this."_

"It's been a week!"

"_Alright. It's been a bloody week. Does this mean you're going to start wearing black now, because I'll be damned if you steal my look. You look better in pastels anyway. Something pink and scant." _

Buffy simultaneously laughed and cried. This, the quiet ease of snarky, suggestive banter, she needed this. She only got it from him. Drying her tears, she grew more serious.

"Why didn't you believe me?" she whispered.

"_Why didn't I believe what, pet?"_

"Why didn't you believe me when I said . . ." she began to falter. "When I said . . ."

"_That's why."_

"What?"

"_That's why I couldn't believe you. You can't even say it now. You could only say it when I was combusting in front of you. When I was saving the world for you."_

"Spike, that's not--"

"_It's alright, Buffy. I know. I know you don't know how. I'm not worth it anyway. Did too many horrible things."_

"You were different! You changed! And I do know how!"

"_You loved the martyr, sweets. You know, Jim Croce wrote this song that goes 'You say you love the baby, but you crucify the man'."_

Buffy didn't know who the hell Jim Croce was. If Spike was just a projection of her repressed longing and grief, why would he bring up some guy she'd never heard of before?

"Who the fuck is Jim Croce, Spike?"

"_Doesn't matter, love. Do you understand what I'm saying? You loved the mission more than you loved me. I always loved that about you. And in the end, that's the only reason you said it. Because by then, I was the only thing saving it . . . the only thing I was ever good for."_

"Listen, you stupid vampire-emotional-projection-y thing! All of that is bullshit because. I. Love. You."

As soon as she said it, she gasped. It felt real this time. Her legs turned to jelly again and she felt like had been knocked in the stomach by an iron balloon. And then the crackle and thickness that his voice occupied in her mind suddenly just dissipated.

Buffy sat up. "Spike? Spike?!"

He was getting fainter, fainter, crawling back into the recesses of her brain.

"No. Please don't leave, Spike."

"_Too late, Love," _he said, barely a whisper.

And then. Silence.

She wept fully now, still soundlessly, but her whole body convulsed in waves.

An insistent yet gentle knock rapped against the door. "Buffy," Dawn called. "Are you okay in there?"

Buffy straightened herself out and immediately dunked her swollen and tear-stained face under the running faucet. "I'm fine, Dawn. I just needed a bath."

She could almost hear Dawn fidget by the door uncertainly. "Okay. That means I claim dominion over the rest of the sesame noodles."

Buffy waited awhile before exiting the bathroom, making sure she looked clean and fresh and . . .

And normal.

That's all she wanted wasn't it? She wanted normal and he sacrificed his life to give that to her.

But knowing that he was gone made her feel anything but normal.

She wrapped a towel around her hair and walked out of the bathroom. Rona and Vi were back from dinner and were watching _American's Next Top Model_ with Dawn while they gave each other pedicures.

"Generic!" Dawn yelled, motioning at the TV. "All these girls are so generic looking!"

"And in dire need of a burger," noted Rona. Vi, with her mouth full of sesame noodles and her hands full of cotton balls, merely nodded.

Buffy leaned against the doorframe and stared at them. Their recovered sense of normality astounded her. They were acting like nothing happened. She could understand Rona and Vi, of course. They hadn't accumulated any battle wounds yet. They didn't know enough of the back story. But Dawn . . . she figured Dawn would be more broken up. Anya was gone and so was Spike. She knew Dawn and Anya were never close, but once upon a time, Spike meant the world to Dawn. Although she seemingly never forgave him for what he had tried to do in that bathroom, Buffy thought she could see past it, she would mourn for the vampire who used to be her best friend.

But it was all in the past. Everyone was moving on so quickly (excluding Xander, but everyone understood that. Would anyone understand her mourning for one already dead? One who had wanted her dead for years?), and maybe she had to too.

She just didn't know how.

Dawn suddenly became aware of Buffy standing like a ghost in the door frame. Her lips curled into a puzzled frown. "What's wrong?" she asked and Vi and Rona warily looked over at her as well.

Buffy quickly pasted on a plastic smile. "Nothing's wrong," she said brightly, moving briskly to the dresser to get some clothes. "The stress of everything just sort of took a toll on my body. Didn't use to be like that. But I guess divvying up my powers to girls worldwide might have taken an edge off the slayer bounce-back factor."

She tried to keep her voice warm but Dawn still gazed at her strangely. Finally, Buffy sighed and said, "I'm just tired" before she crawled into the other double bed.

She drifted off to sleep while Dawn, Rona and Vi continued watching bad reality television, chattering animatedly.

And as her consciousness descended into dreams, she saw him. Broken and angelic and looking at her like she was a prayer as he stood amidst the rocks and ruins and fire.

"_Every night I save you,"_ he said.

She reached out her hand and caught his, but it crumbled to dust.

The dream was on repeat, like a record that wouldn't stop skipping. She woke up gasping. Her lungs felt like they were filling up with blood. And every night for the first few weeks it was the same. Every night she tried to save him.

Every night she failed.

And she wondered if she'd ever feel normal again.


End file.
